


I'm So Tired, My Mind Is Set On You

by dornfelder



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Beatles in India, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Rishikesh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: In Rishikesh, their story changes.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 27
Kudos: 94





	I'm So Tired, My Mind Is Set On You

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to my fantastic beta, [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh), who patiently puts up with me and my gerunds. ;)

_I’_ _m so tired, I don’t know what to do_

_I’m so tired, my mind is set on you_

_**The Beatles, I’m So Tired, 1968** _

Something woke Paul in the middle of the night.

He had gone to bed late after a jam session with George and Ringo, alone. The girls had been invited to a guided moonlight meditation – something to do with their periods. There had been talk, accompanied by a lot of giggling and blushing, about harmonizing with nature on the full moon. Paul really didn’t want to know. More and more, he started to think he had come to the wrong place.

He’d had trouble falling asleep. Now he felt hot. Sweat was cooling on his chest and arms, and he threw off the thin blanket and took a deep breath. Had Jane come back? Maybe that was what had woken him. “Darling?”

He turned his head to the open window, but there was nothing out there but a dark curtain of lush vegetation. Everything seemed quiet, except –

Someone was breathing. And it came from the other side of the room, from the shadows.

Paul sat up. “Who’s there?”

Breathing became a voice, became a person who slowly emerged from the dark. “Just me.”

_John._

“Fuck. You scared me half to death. What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

John approached the bed and stopped to look down at Paul. The moonlight falling through the window wasn’t bright enough for Paul to read his face. He was shirtless, wearing only his white cotton trousers.

“Hey,” Paul said with a hint of caution.

John had been acting strange lately – he was unhappy with Cyn, rude toward Jane. And he kept looking at ihm in a way Paul couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t annoyance, it wasn’t anger; that much he could tell.

John didn’t say anything.

For a moment, Paul thought he was going to sit down at the edge of the bed – expected it. But instead John put one knee on the mattress and then the other, shifting upward to straddle Paul.

“What –”

John put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him back into the sheets. “Shh.”

“John – no, seriously, what –”

The heat of his skin when he lay down on top of Paul was shocking. He pinned Paul with his weight – with his gaze, eyes unfathomable in the dark. He wasn’t wearing glasses. His face was much too close –

“John, what are you doing?”

What the fuck is happening here, Paul wanted to say, only he knew what was happening, on an instinctive level, the second before John bent down and kissed him.

Paul turned his head to the side. The kiss landed at the corner of his mouth, hot and dry. John’s hand was in his hair, trying to turn his head back, and John whispered, “Let me. Paul, Paulie, let me, please.” He kissed Paul’s mouth again, and Paul gasped. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what possessed John to do this, to come into his bedroom at night and do this crazy thing – was he out of his mind? Had he taken something?

John kept kissing him – with tongue now, hot and wet. Paul drew in a breath, tasted bitter tobacco and sweet marijuana. He brought up his hands, bucked his hips and _pushed-threw-shoved_ John off of him.

He sat up, struggling to find his breath. “John. What the bloody hell?”

John had fallen to his side. He lay there, staring up at Paul.

“Lennon. Seriously, what the –”

John’s face crumbled, and he curled in himself. He started to shake, rocking the whole bed with silent sobs. Paul stared at him, still didn’t understand what was happening. He reached out, then stilled. His hand hovered in mid-air for a long second before he put it on John’s shoulder – his _bare_ shoulder. Paul swallowed. “John. Talk to me. Come on, lad – what’s going on?

All of this was surreal. Hat something happened – had John gotten into an argument with Cynthia? With anyone else? Why had he come here and …

Paul pulled his hand back. He touched his mouth; the ghost of John’s kiss lingered there.

“Paul.”

He looked down at John.

“I can’t do this anymore. Not without you.” John’s voice was so quiet that Paul nearly didn’t catch it.

“Do what?” he said.

John didn’t reply. Paul took a deep, frustrated breath. “If you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.”

“Talking’s no good, Paulie. I don’t … I don’t have the words.”

In any other situation, that would have lent itself to a caustic reply. John Lennon, speechless? But this wasn’t a moment like any other, was it? In any other situation, John’s midnight visit might have annoyed him. But after that kiss … It didn’t make any sense.

“Okay,” Paul said slowly. “You can’t do this anymore. And you can’t talk about it. Now what?”

“Paul.” It was almost a cry. “Why can’t you … Jesus Christ, why can’t you just –”

“Just what?”

John looked at him. He lifted a hand in slow motion and put his thumb on Paul’s lips. “Let it happen.”

Paul’s heart stopped beating. “Oh.” More a breath than a syllable. His lips moved softly against John’s callused thumb.

The world spun. For a moment, everything went blurry. Then it came into new, sharp focus. “ _Fuck_. But you –”

The thumb moved. John traced Paul’s lips, touched the corner of his mouth. He pulled his hand back, slowly uncurled from his fetal position and sat up.

Paul’s stomach lurched. Oh God, was this – if this was going where he thought it was, he needed to pull away, get out of bed, and –

He didn’t move; he couldn’t.

John knelt in front of him. Numb, Paul kept sitting there as John’s thumb slid over his cheek, as John closed the distance between them.

The kiss didn’t come as a surprise this time but surprised him nevertheless – the gentleness of it, the sweetness – the way John touched his face, reverent fingers caressing Paul’s cheekbone. Paul closed his eyes. The world narrowed down to John’s lips that moved softly against his – and then John made a soft noise and broke the kiss. He hid his face against Paul’s shoulder, breathing hard.

He was trembling, but so was Paul.

Paul blindly put an arm around him. His palm ended up on John’s shoulderblade, the skin warm and smooth under his fingers. John’s hair smelled of the incense the Maharishi had burned earlier that day. Paul swallowed. His lips felt hot. _What now?_

“Paul.” John’s hair tickled his neck; his voice was a whisper against his ear.

“Mhm.”

“I know – I know you’re not. But … just for tonight. Can it be just for tonight?”

Paul’s heart was beating so fast he thought it would jump right out of his chest – the enormity of what John was asking, what he was implying. _I know you’re not._

Did that mean that John _was_? Did it mean that he – like Brian, was he –

Fuck.

_John._

John’s lips moved against the tender skin of his neck. “Just this once, Paul. Please.”

Paul shivered. He couldn’t say anything. His throat worked, but nothing came out. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been this close to John – close enough to feel his heartbeat, to hear and feel him breathe. It was …

It was.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay.”

John kissed him again. He pushed Paul back into the sheets and Paul went willingly, let himself be pinned. The kisses turned deep, turned voracious, too much tongue and too little finesse, as if John wanted to eat him alive.

“I want you so much,” John whispered. “I’m going crazy with it. Paul, Paul, you don’t know.”

Paul gasped. So it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing, it wasn’t anything caused by drugs or by John being John, with some sort of idea stuck in his head, but something much deeper. It filled him with a sense of foreboding. _T_ _his is madness._

It wasn’t going to be just one night _._

Not if this was what had been brewing in John like a storm. How long, Paul wanted to ask, how long have you carried this around with you? “Fuck,” he whispered against John’s bruising, insistent mouth. He was getting hard, _John was making him hard_ , his hands, the taste of him, his warm, heavy body on top of Paul’s – something Paul hadn’t ever thought about, something he hadn’t known he could want.

But this was John, and when had he ever not wanted something John was offering?

John tugged at the hem of his vest. Paul sat up halfway to pull it over his head. John started kissing a path down his chest, open-mouthed and messy, teeth pulling at his chest hair – where was this going, what was John doing, what …? “John –” But John didn’t answer, and when Paul tried to sit up again, John pushed him back down.

John’s long hair tickled his stomach. It was maddening and it slowly made him panic, the direction this was taking, but then John looked up at him and said, in a hushed whisper, “Let me, Paul, _let me._ ”

Paul fell back into the pillow, gasping as John licked a path downward, from his bellybutton to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and pulled it down, exposing Paul’s prick – hard, terribly hard now. God, what was John doing, he couldn’t possibly – but he did, and Paul hissed as wet heat surrounded him and John started sucking his cock, pulled off to deliver kitten licks that drove Paul crazy, _crazy_ – that was John for you, pushing boundaries, battering through them, really – and then he was sucking Paul in again, not stopping, not stopping, _God, fuck_ – “Please, please – you’re – _John_ –” Paul’s hands found their way into John’s hair, the strands soft on his knuckles, and he was thrusting up into John’s mouth, sobbing, burning, flying.

He came down slowly, breathing hard. John still knelt between his thighs, head turned to the side, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Paul didn’t know whether he’d swallowed. John refused to look at him.

“John, hey –” His throat was dry as dust, as if he’d screamed himself raw.

John looked up after another moment. “I’m slipping, Paul,” he said, quietly and distinctly. “No one’s going to catch me if I fall. No one, ’cept you, and you –”

“Come here.” Paul barely recognized his own voice. He pulled John up into his arms, relieved when John came. “Come here.”

John rocked against him, urgently. He tangled his hands in Paul’s hair, kissed him, sucked on his tongue. “Tonight,” he said, a breath’s width from Paul’s lips. “ Just for tonight. Let me – I need you. I want to have you. Please. Paul, please.”

Paul froze. “You –” Acute terror shook him. What John was asking was unimaginable. He couldn’t possibly –

“Please,” John whispered again. “I’ve done it with girls. Haven’t you?”

Paul bit his lips. “No.” It wasn’t something you did with a girl you actually liked. It was dirty, something a whore did or one of those slags you picked up after a show. It had never truly come to Paul’s mind to try it. I’m not a girl, was on his tongue, except that John knew that.

And if Paul _w_ _ere_ a girl – fuck. _I’d be like Cyn, like all the others,_ _putty in his hands, swooning at his feet_ _when he smiles at me_ _._ John’s smile had always done _things_ to him. Made him feel like a budgie fluffing up its feathers. _Look at me. Pay attention_ _to me_ _._ It was a heady feeling, when John paid attention to you, one that made you light up from the inside.

“Let me,” John whispered. He was begging with his whole body. His hands were on Paul’s shoulders. He let them slide down Paul’s sides, down to his hips, squeezed Paul’s bum. “Come on, Paul, Paulie, I want you so bad, you have no idea.”

Paul could feel the tension running through him; John was positively vibrating with it. And Paul felt ready to shed his skin, too hot and too tight and right at the point of splitting open. Could he really do that? Was he really going to take it up the arse from John?

John kissed him again, stole his breath. Touched his half-hard prick with warm, callused fingers. Let his fingers trail between Paul’s legs, a tickling sensation that made Paul flinch – he didn’t like it when girls touched his bollocks. But John didn’t stop there; one finger slid into his cleft, touched his arsehole. Paul let out his breath, something between a hiss and a groan. His legs were trembling. And then he spread them for John, did it without a conscious thought.

Just like that, the decision had been made, and they both knew it.

John stilled on top of him. “God, Paul –”

“Yeah. Come on.”

“I – I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

“You better.” Paul laughed a little. His breath caught. He threw his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Fuck.”

John shifted. He braced himself on his arms, leaving a bit of distance between them, and looked down at Paul. “Yeah,” he said, so softly Paul barely heard it. “What you do to me, you have no idea.”

“Might have, though.” Paul didn’t think. He reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from John’s face. “Who else would I do this for, Lennon? You better treat me right.”

John closed his eyes. “Paul,” he said, then, soft and in way that was both mocking and tender, “Princess.”

It zig-zagged through Paul like an electric current. He gasped, and John heard it; his eyes lit up, half gleeful, half stunned. “Oh,” he breathed.

“Don’t,” Paul forced out, “don’t – John, don’t you _dare_ –“

“No,” John said, “no, all right. Just –“ He let go of Paul. “I need –“ He climbed off the bed and went straight into the bathroom. Lights went on, and he was rummaging through the contents of the shelf. Something clattered to the floor.

Paul squeezed his eyes shut. The brief respite did nothing to calm him down. He’d agreed – _John would_ – and then John was there again, a small jar in hand – one of Jane’s beauty aids, Paul thought, not that it mattered.

He swallowed, swallowed again when John knelt back down on the mattress and opened the jar with shaky hands to coat his fingers in white, sticky cream.

Paul fisted the bed sheets. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. Anything to keep this from happening, but it was too late, he couldn’t say no now. He desperately tried to come up with a distraction in his mind – the song he’d worked on in the afternoon, the one that still needed lyrics …

When John touched him, all reasoning dissolved like mist in the morning sun. Cool, sticky fingers moved between his legs, touched him _there_ –

Should he turn over? But John didn’t seem to want him to. He was watching Paul’s face intently. Then his fingers stilled. “Paul.” Hushed, urgent, a little unsure. “Let me?”

“I said yes already, didn’t I?” That sounded less than gracious even to Paul’s own ears, and he winced. “Yeah. Go on. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. But it will be.” John pushed his finger in, and Paul tried to let it happen, tried not to tense up any further. “Shh,” John whispered and kissed him. Paul wound his arms around his neck to keep him close even after the kiss had ended. John kissed him again, fleetingly, lips curving into a smile. “Stop distracting me. C’mon, Paul …”

It all became a blur after that. John was gentle, just as he’d promised; it still hurt. Finally he was inside, fully inside, holding himself carefully still. He sought Paul’s gaze. Then – “Princess.”

Paul groaned. Heat coursed through him.

“Like that, do you?” John sounded more than a little smug. “If I’d known –“

“Shut _up_ ,” Paul said. “ _Move_.”

John did, set a slow pace, showing a restraint that had to be killing him, _was_ killing him, if the way he was shaking was anything to go by. In his place Paul would have lost control already. But John didn’t. He kept fucking Paul with slow thrusts, deep and devastating, bit his lips, arms braced on the bed, Paul’s legs slung over his shoulder.

Paul gritted his teeth, tried not let his breath come out in a hiss. In a way, it felt like the beginnings of a song John brought to him, something foreign and not quite comfortable, and Paul wasn’t quite sure what it was going to be, a piece of rubbish or a stroke of genius. Every tentative movement was a key note of something yet to be revealed, something Paul was straining to grasp. Understanding hovered out of reach, but if he only got the hang of it, he’d figure it out. He’d _know_. “Keep going,” he whispered. “Slow, John, yes –“ And then, like being struck by lightning from the inside, he did, boy, did he ever, and then he was surging up and against John, answering him, adding syncopation and counterpoint to John’s rhythm and melody until it became bliss, became perfection – no longer John’s but _theirs_.

John couldn’t seem to let go of him afterwards. He pillowed his head on Paul’s chest, and Paul didn’t complain, kept him there with one hand in John’s hair and one arm dropped carelessly across his neck and shoulders, cradling him between his thighs.

There was nothing to say, nothing to do but listen to John’s breathing, enjoy the pleasant relaxation, the moment of closeness that didn’t need more, that just was. Eventually, after John had fallen into exhausted sleep, Paul pulled away and covered him with the thin cotton sheet.

He slid out of bed and reached for his ciggies. Stark naked and all-too conscious of the fact, he stepped to the window, hoping that John wouldn’t wake up.

He needed to think.

* * * * *

Paul stepped forward before Jane had reached the front door. “Hey.” He lit another cigarette. Hopefully she would think he’d just stepped outside to have a smoke.

She gave a little squeak. “Paul, good heavens, you frightened me.”

“Sorry. How was the meditation?”

Jane grimaced. It wasn’t her cup of tea, he’d known that even before they’d come here. “Nothing special, really. Just more of the same. What are you doing out here?”

Paul shrugged and stepped a little closer. “John’s here.” He nodded at the door. “He was in bit of a state when he came over. We talked some, and I couldn’t get him to leave; now he’s sleeping. In our bed,” he added pointedly.

“Oh.” Jane stared at him. Her hair looked pale in the moonlight, drained of its vivid colour. She bit her lip. “What do you want me to do?”

She didn’t seem to find John’s erratic behaviour unusual, which probably should have been more alarming to Paul than it was. It rather felt like a blessing. “You should go over to Cyn’s,” he said. “Let her know he’s here. See if you can sleep there; I’ll keep an eye on John and send him back once he’s … _awake_.” Emphasizing the word so it meant _sober_.

The implication wasn’t lost on Jane. “Oh. Yes, that makes sense.” She bit her lip again. “It’s just, I need – can I fetch my …?“

Paul nearly panicked at the thought of Jane entering the house – seeing his and John’s clothes strewn across the floor, smelling … “What do you need? I can bring it here.”

“But –“

“Jane, really, I don’t want you near him right now.” Not for the reason she thought.

“Oh.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “Is he all right?”

Paul snorted. “When is he ever?” True, but with a twist. He felt like a liar, but, well, he was a liar, wasn’t he? And if there was one thing he knew, it was that he’d continue to be one, if he had to, for John. For them. It wasn’t a matter of choice.

He went inside to fetch what she needed – her nightgown, a few toiletries from the bathroom, fresh underwear. As he fleetingly kissed her good night, he wondered whether she noticed anything unusual. His lips, bruised from kissing, his skin, tender and heated from John’s stubble. Marks of possession John had left on him, _in_ him, _Jesus_ _bloody_ _Christ_ _,_ that meant that if he’d ever truly been hers, he no longer was.

Paul watched her walk away, over to John’s and Cynthia’s bungalow, before he went back inside and locked the door.

John lay curled up on his side, face hidden in a pillow. Paul went over to the bed, but when he sat down, John slowly rolled over to his back and blinked up at him. “You made her go away.” His voice was sleep-rough and soft. The candle Paul hat lit earlier made him look even softer, cast him in bronze, gold, and copper.

“Could hardly let her in, now, could I?”

“You could’ve cast _me_ out.”

The smile came unbidden. “No. I really, really couldn’t.”

“God, Paul, you daft sod.” But John was smiling too.

They stared at each other. John’s face was achingly familiar, all the sharp angles, the sideburns Paul didn’t really like that obscured the clean lines of his jaw. His eyes were tired – John hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep lately.

It was so easy to get lost in the moment, to let himself have this, after John had avoided his eyes so frequently these past few months, been so dismissive of him at times. It had hurt. Paul had missed it, being close to John – not just a part of his circle of friends but something more. What they were to each other had always seemed so clear, in those early years, but then it had changed, gradually, and lately, Paul hadn’t known where they stood with each other. Now … now things had become a lot clearer. A lot scarier. The scariest thing was the thought of losing it again.

How to keep it, though? If that was what John wanted.

John’s smile slowly faded. “I can’t be with Cyn anymore,” he said. “Sometimes I – she hasn’t done anything. But she’s just – I need to get away. That’s no longer who I am.”

It didn’t exactly come as a surprise to anyone who knew them both, had known them in Liverpool. “There’s Jules to consider, though,” Paul said carefully.

“He’s hers more than mine. Bloody hell, sometimes it’s like he’s _yours_ more than mine.”

“No.” Paul’s brain rejected the idea immediately. “That’s just in your head. You’re his dad. No one else can be that for him.” And John had to know that, too. “Maybe …” Paul hesitated. “Maybe … we could work something out. Cynthia isn’t one for hysterics, is she? Maybe you could …” _Stay married to her._ That was his practical side, suggesting it. If John told Cyn he wanted to stay married, even if they weren’t together, she’d do it, for Julian’s sake, and it would make it easier to … But how could he ask that of John unless he was willing to do the same? “But if you really want out, we’re going to find a way.”

“Are we?”

Their eyes met. In no way was John talking only about Cyn.

“Won’t be easy,” Paul said softly. “Worth it, if that’s what you want.”

“And you?”

Paul huffed in exasperation and shook his head. “Would you be here if I didn’t?”

John started smiling again. “Dunno. Maybe you got … carried away. I’m ir-re-sis-ti-ble.” He drawled the word in a mocking tone.

Paul snorted. “Sure you are. But that wasn’t an answer, was it?”

John rolled his eyes. “God, Paul, what do you think?”

Paul’s heart was beating faster. “How should I know? You’re playing games all the time. How am I to know you’re not just trying to get one over me?”

“Really, that’s what you believe?”

“I’m not saying that. John, c’mon –“

“Yes, okay? Yes. Now stop being a girl about this, and –“

“Okay,” Paul said quickly. Relief made him feel light-headed. “All right.”

“Just like that, huh? Am I that good of a shag?”

“There’s room for improvement,” Paul said without thinking.

John burst into laughter at that and reached for him to pull him down. Paul didn’t resist. He hid his smile against John’s chest. Then they were kissing again, and John tuned them over so he was on top of Paul. “I can’t wait to have you again.”

Paul’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t trust his voice, wet his lips, trying to come up with something to say. “Am I that good of a shag?” As far as comebacks went, it was rather weak.

“God, yes. It’s heaven, being inside you.” Paul knew he was blushing furiously. “Never thought you’d let me, though,” John added. “You’re such a bloody control freak, didn’t think you’d give it up for me.”

“Are you going to give it up for _me_?” He didn’t know why he was asking, only that the answer felt weirdly important.

He looked up at John.

John looked down at him and slowly raised his eyebrows. “Maybe,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Everything, for my princess. Baby. Darling. Sweetheart –“

“Oh, shut up, you wanker,” Paul muttered, and they both dissolved into quiet, helpless laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I know that he allegedly wrote that song for Yoko, but a fangirl can dream, right? Basically, this is my take on, "What if John was actually in love with Paul?"


End file.
